The Lady Vanishes (1938) **1/2

(There may be spoilers in this post.)

I’m not certain what most people see when they watch director Alfred Hitchcock’s, The Lady Vanishes (1938).  To many, it is the most suspenseful and wittiest of his British films.  Perhaps it is the wittiest, but I would dare say that The 39 Steps (1935) is far more suspenseful.  Still, those points aren’t really  what I contemplate when I watch this movie.  What I think about is how politically symbolic it is—perhaps without even trying.

While The Lady Vanishes premiered in London on October 7, 1938, and, thus, could not have been affected by Neville Chamberlain’s idiotic “Peace for Our Time” speech on September 30, 1938, regarding the Munich Agreement, the movie is a reflection of its time.  First, the film begins in the small, fictitious European country of Bandrika, which has just suffered an avalanche that has blocked the railway.  To me, the avalanche is Nazi Germany—which would scoop up the Sudetenland after Chamberlain’s act of appeasement.  As a result of the avalanche, a small group of British citizens find their trip back home delayed and they must lodge overnight in a crowded hotel infested with all sorts of Continentals who don’t speak English and seem unfamiliar with common  British manners. In an uncivilized world (any European country east of France in this case), the British, of course, are overly civilized—which, by the way, was causing them all sorts of trouble with dealing with Hitler.

Then there are the principal leads: Margaret Lockwood and Michael Redgrave.  Iris Henderson (Lockwood) is an heiress returning to England to marry a man she obviously doesn’t love because it is time for her to settle down.  Gilbert (Michael Redgrave) is a whimsical musicologist who is researching regional folk music and customs. Together, they are the British Empire: practical observers of the European conundrum—the Nazis. When Iris’ takes a flower pot to the skull, which leads her to blackout on the train, her worldview becomes a bit off-kilter—as had the British mindset during Hitler’s Anschluss of Austria.

When Iris awakes, she is tended to by the kindly Ms. Froy (Dame May Whitty), who unfortunately vanishes (hence the title) soon thereafter.  When Iris attempts to find Ms. Froy she finds herself fighting against two groups of people: the conspirers and the do-nothings.  The conspirers are a mix of Europeans (who seem to speak Italian and German) who work together to trick Iris into believing that her bump on the head is causing her to mistrust them, and that Ms. Froy is not missing.  And, then there are the do-nothings, who all happen to be British.  There are the adulterers (Cecil Parker and Linden Travers), who don’t want to become involved in case of scandal, and then there are Caldicott (Naunton Wayne) and Charters (Basil Radford), two British cricket enthusiasts who would rather stay mum about having seen Ms. Froy than miss an all-important cricket match.  I view this as a statement that scandal leads to confrontation and that it is better to preoccupy oneself with unimportant distractions than seeing what is truly happening around oneself. 

And, then there is the stranded train scene.  By this time, with no help from their fellow British passengers, Iris and Gilbert have recovered Ms. Froy and are trying to convince their fellow travelers that something is amiss in whatever Godforsaken European nation they are stranded in.  It takes a bullet to the hand for Charters to believe that they are in grave danger and Cecil Parker’s character, a pacifist, gets shot down while waving a white handkerchief in the air.  It is not until the British citizens band together against their enemy that they can escape danger.

Oh, and Ms. Froy—why was she “vanished” by the Europeans in the first place?  She was a British spy on her way back to report that two European nations had made a secret pact with one another.  Please pick one: the Non-Aggression Pact between the Soviets and Germany or the Pact of Steel between Italy and Germany, both of which were signed in 1939. 

I expect mine is an unusual viewpoint of The Lady Vanishes.  Perhaps you would rather I discuss how the serenader is killed by an unknown person via shadow or that Hitchcock employs birds and a magician’s disappearing woman cabinet to make a statement?  Or what about the fact that one of the conspirators (Paul Lukas) is a likable villain or that the heroine finds herself in world where reality is pitted against illusion?  All of those common Hitchcockian themes do appear in the movie and work quite well, but as a historian I see an accidentally  politically prophetic film. 

Bringing Up Baby (1938) ****

It is difficult for me to understand how director Howard Hawks’ Bringing Up Baby (1938) ended up being a monumental flop—it’s absolutely hilarious. Yet, it was panned by reviewers; snubbed by Oscar; and, neglected by moviegoers. Things were so bad that Katharine Hepburn had to buy out her RKO contract and Hawks was dropped by RKO—which cost him the right to direct Gunga Din (1939), which went to George Stevens. However, in the end Bringing Up Baby had the last laugh, as it is now considered one of the best American comedies ever made. What I adore about Bringing Up Baby is its breakneck pace and its clever dialogue—plus you can’t go wrong with a Grant-Hepburn pairing supported by the likes of May Robson, Charlie Ruggles, Fritz Feld, and Walter Catlett.

Dr. David Huxley (Cary Grant) is on the brink of completing the four-year process of reconstructing a brontosaurus when a missing intercostal clavicle is found.  In addition, David is about to secure a $1 million donation to the museum from Elizabeth Random (Robson) and he is getting married to Ms. Swallow (Virginia Walker).  Life is good for David—that is until his golf ball is stolen by a flighty, oblivious young woman named Susan Vance (Katharine Hepburn). Kleptomania is Susan’s disease: she not only steals David’s golf ball but his car as well—with him standing on the running board. When you think about it, Susan is a small-time crook in the making. Let’s see, she steals a golf ball, two cars, a purse, David’s clothes, and a leopard in less than two days.  It only makes sense that she would also want to steal Ms. Swallow’s fiancee, too, right?

Even with David wearing his glasses, Susan soon falls in love with him—although when she break his glasses she also likes to mention just how good-looking he is without them (perhaps this is where they got the Clark Kent/Superman, idea?). And, who wouldn’t—he is played by Cary Grant!  Susan and David do make a handsome couple, but David wants none of Susan’s craziness.  Throwing rocks at lawyers, stealing countless things, and having a pet leopard named Baby would seem like deal-breakers to most people, right? Well, it’s a 1938 Hollywood comedy—guess how it ends?

Howard Hawks should be lauded for his ability to pull the whole production together (although it did run overschedule and over budget) whilst working diligently to curb Hepburn’s nerves about her comedic abilities.  Everything about Hepburn screamed drama, and to be plunged into a harebrained screwball comedy was unnerving for her—especially after a series of flops. Initially she started the production overacting in an attempt to be funny, but Hawks cured her of this by bringing in Walter Catlett to coach her.  Catlett acted out Hepburn’s scenes with Grant and showed her that just being herself and allowing Grant to play his character as it was intended was enough. Hepburn was so indebted to Catlett that she asked he be given the role of Constable Slocum—which he was rewarded with. 

The script by Dudley Nichols and Hagar Wilde is full of double entendres and witty dialogue.  The censors knew there was something very wrong about Bringing Up Baby, but they just couldn’t put their finger on it. It could have been that David was searching for a lost bone or explaining that he thought a certain bone went in the tail but was rebuffed by Mrs. Swallow when she said, “You tried it in the tail yesterday, and it didn't fit.” And then there’s the “gay” thing. Grant has the unique honor of introducing the term “gay” into popular culture when he was dressed in a frilly woman’s negligee and explained his appearance to Mrs. Random by saying, ““Because I just went gay all of a sudden!”

Of course, the best lines are reserved for David and Susan’s stint in Constable Slocum’s jail.  When Hepburn begins her mobster moll act and does her best impression of Barbara Stanwyck in Ladies They Talk About (1933) it is hysterically funny—especially when you consider Hepburn never played such a role in her entire career. And then there’s the nod to The Awful Truth (1937):

Susan: You mean to say you don't remember 'Jerry the Nipper' ?

David: Constable she's making all this up out of motion pictures she's seen!

[Irene Dunne refers to Cary Grant as 'Jerry the Nipper' in The Awful Truth]

Susan: Oh, I suppose I saw you with that red-headed skirt in a motion picture ?

And, then there’s Baby and George (another transplant from The Awful Truth and of course The Thin Man series). In what other film can you see a leopard and a Wire Fox Terrier playing with one another?  For the most part, Hepburn was unafraid of the leopard—she wore enough perfume to choke even a $5 dollar hooker to keep that leopard at bay.  It was Grant who was petrified of the cat and who had to have a stand-in for most of his scenes with the leopard.  Which only adds to the humor of watching Susan literally dragging the mean leopard to the police station.

Overall, I am a huge fan of Bringing Up Baby. Hepburn and Grant have wonderful chemistry and make you like their two divergent characters.  The film moves along quickly and has tons of great lines, which, when put all together, makes for a brisk screwball comedy.

Olympia (1938) **

There is no doubt that director/producer Leni Riefenstahl was a tool of Hitler’s Nazi regime.  Yet, that does not negate the fact that her two-part documentary of the 1936 Olympic games held in Berlin, Germany, Olympia, “Festival of the Nations” and “Festival of Beauty” (1938), is a monumental cinematic spectacle.  She employed technical elements never seen before—extreme close-ups, tracking shots, and highly inventive camera angles—which were later used by the likes of Orson Welles and Carol Reed. That said, the overall tone of the film is still hindered by Nazi propaganda and racism. 

Part One, “Festival of the Nations”, opens rather ostentatiously, with Riefenstahl directly comparing German athletes to Greek gods.  This lends itself to the idea of the superiority of the Aryan race, so this isn’t a good way to endear your movie to viewers familiar with the vile tenets of Nazism and Hitler’s Mein Kampf. And, I suspect the all-but-naked (and in some cases, really naked) human specimens were a bit racy for 1938.  Anyway, unlike the last few Olympics, with their 10-hour opening ceremonies, Olympia just has a parade of nations.  Still, from a historical perspective the viewer gains keen insight into which countries were allies (or unwilling ones, too) of Hitler in 1936 by whether they give the Nazi salute or not. Thankfully, the American athletes do not.

After the mini-geopolitical lesson has commenced, we then move to the track and field games.  Again, even though it would have been much better if at least one of the 100,000 spectators in the stadium had aimed a bullet Hitler’s way and saved countless lives, the film is of historical importance because we get to see one of the greatest athletes ever, Jesse Owens, dominate every event he participated in by winning four gold medals.  Racial superiority took a slap in the face when that Ohio State Buckeye visited Berlin.  I watched the German version, so it was easy to tell when the announcer was miffed that both Germans and the entire white race kept losing to a black man. 

Anyway, all blatant bias aside, Riefenstahl and her crew of hundreds do an excellent job of capturing the athletic prowess of the track and field competitors.  Watching in slow motion bodies contort in feats of strength and speed allows one to gain an appreciation of just how much skill goes into being a top-tier athlete.  My one complaint, which really shouldn’t be one since she was doing revolutionary things, is that I can hear the ticking of the film spool/speed whenever the camera slows down.

Part Two, “Festival of Beauty” oddly enough starts with naked German men in a bath house scrubbing each other’s backs and laying back in ecstasy as the steam washes over them. For such a homophobic nation, this seems like a less than Nazi way to begin the second part of your documentary.  That said, this section of the film focuses on gymnastics, regatta, swimming, diving, and military sport—although the Pentathlon makes its way into this, too. Why it wasn’t in the first part with the other track and field events is a mystery to me. 

While it focuses more on the aesthetic effects of sport, “Festival of Beauty” is also a showcase of athleticism.  I could have done without the Eventing section, with horses being hurtled over extremely perilous ravines and obstacles.  With each passing fall and unseating of uniformed rider, I became convinced that at any moment one of the officers was going to whip out a pistol and put down a horse.  However, in complete opposite of this inhumane brutality, was the diving section of the film.  This is a thing of beauty to watch, as Riefenstahl made the divers appear as though they were flying through the air.

Overall, Olympia is probably the greatest documentary about the Olympic games ever made.  It is unfortunate that there has to be an undercurrent of Nazism and racism running throughout it, though.  And while it is a visual treat, its 3+ hour runtime can be daunting to the casual sports enthusiast. 

The Baker’s Wife (La femme du boulanger) 1938 **

(There may be spoilers in this post.)

The French always display such superiority when it comes to making humanistic comedies about philandering spouses in small, provincial towns.  I think it’s a cultural thing, as many Americans are off-put by how blasé the French are when it comes to adultery.  A French woman I know explained this to me quite simply: Americans equate sex with love, the French do not.  By now I suppose you are wondering why I am talking about this in the first place.  Well, La femme du boulanger (The Baker’s Wife) is about a philandering French wife and her cuckolded husband, and for many Americans, the ending is unfathomable.

Based on the novella Jean le Bleu by Jean Giono, The Baker’s Wife is about Aimable (Raimu), a baker in a sleepy French town where everyone knows everyone’s business. When his much younger wife, Aurélie (Ginette Leclerc), runs off with a good looking shepherd (Charles Blavette), Aimable refuses to bake and the town goes into an uproar.  A town full of generation-old grudges comes together and unites to track down the wonton wife and return her to the baker. Working with his usual stock cast, director Marcel Pagnol interweaves religion and philosophy to create a simple humanistic comedy about life.

While the film is called The Baker’s Wife, it really is the baker who takes center stage.  Raimu was an exceptionally gifted actor who could simultaneously make you laugh and cry.  His Aimable is a pitiful man. He’s both naïve and infuriating. His disbelief that Aurélie has left him is pathetic, especially as he continues to insist she has went to her mother’s even after countless people have told him that she ran away with the shepherd.  In the hands of a lesser actor, Aimable could have morphed into the stereotypical cuckolded husband—weak and infuriating—especially in the final scene when he takes Aurélie back.  Instead of beating her or scolding her, he uses a wayward cat as a surrogate to reprimand her for her straying ways. It is a beautiful scene, and the one that most remember about The Baker’s Wife.

There is nothing artistically special about the movie, though.  Georges Benoit’s cinematography is unremarkable and, for me, there aren’t any lasting cinematic images.  It is the story and the acting that carries The Baker’s Wife. Each character (even the periphery ones) has a unique personality.  The town priest (Robert Vattier) is constantly at odds with an atheist teacher (Robert Bassac) and a womanizing mayor and marquis (Fernand Charpin).  Their conversations about what constitutes sin and if there is a God are highly entertaining.  Yet, it is with their unique talents that they come up with a plan to ensure that the town gets its bread.  For me, this sends the message that no matter how divergent world views may be, there is always something that brings people together—in this case, fresh delicious bread.

Still, there are elements of the story that are too far-fetched for me.  Aurélie knew the shepherd all of ten minutes and the next thing you see is her rubbing up against him with her husband only feet away was too much of a stretch. Obviously this wasn’t her first liaison (what with her going to church all the time but no one ever seeing her there), but in the span of twenty-four hours to decide you are going to leave your husband for someone you’ve just met pushes the bounds of believability.

Overall, I enjoyed The Baker’s Wife. The story is quirkily told and wickedly funny.  And, Raimu gives a fine performance.  Yet, its lack of aesthetics and the unbelievable way Aurélie and the the shepherd hook up, take a lot of shine off the overall production.  Plus, I couldn’t help but wonder if Dunkin’ Donuts modeled their old spokesperson after Aimable—"Time to make the donuts.”

Angels with Dirty Faces (1938) **1/2

(This is my contribution to the James Cagney Blogathon, which is organized by R.D. Finch at The Movie Projector and runs from April 8-12.)

Few actors played the fast-talking, posturing gangster better than James Cagney.  He did it so well that he often found himself typecast in tough-guy roles, while seeing parts he coveted awarded to other actors who ‘fit’ the role better.  At heart he was a song-and-dance man, who began his career in vaudeville and never got it out of his blood.  Yet, it is primarily his work in such famous gangster films as The Public Enemy (1931), Angels with Dirty Faces (1938), and White Heat (1949), that he is most recognized.  Perhaps it is ironic that the character-type he so wanted to avoid being pigeonholed into is the one that he is most famous for, but at least he can take solace in the fact that he was Hollywood’s Golden Age version of Robert De Niro. Of Cagney’s three Academy Award nominations, two of them were for gangster parts. The first of these nominations came from a career-changing turn in Angels with Dirty Faces.

When Warner Bros first offered Cagney the role of gangster Rocky Sullivan in director Michael Curtiz’s Angels with Dirty Faces his agent was convinced Cagney wouldn’t take it.  The script called for Rocky to ‘turn yellow’ as he was being escorted to the electric chair—a character trait that no other Cagney character had ever exhibited. Fortunately the agent was wrong, and Cagney saw an opportunity to prove to critics and producers that he had a broad acting range.  For many it was shocking to see the quintessential tough-guy crying out in anguish as he was about to pay for his crimes.  While some viewers today find this overly-moralized act a bit difficult to accept, Rocky’s final ‘redemptive’ act fit Curtiz’s social responsibility style and was also a way to sidestep the Hays Code—how else could Cagney’s murderous character retain a touch of heroism in an era when cinematic criminals had to pay for their sins.

If there was a studio who knew how to make an effective gangster melodrama it was Warner Bros. Angels with Dirty Faces was one in many of a long line of films the studio produced where childhood friends found themselves on the opposite side of the law as adults (Manhattan Melodrama and Dead End spring to mind).  Growing up on the Lower East Side of New York City in the 1920s, Jerry Connolly (Pat O’Brien) and Rocky Sullivan (Cagney) were juvenile delinquents one step away from the reformatory. It was that one step that actually led one (Rocky) into a life of crime and the other (Jerry) into the priesthood.  As a result, when the two friends are reunited as adults they find themselves in conflict. In particular, Father Jerry has dedicated his life to keeping other young men  (played by the “Dead End” Kids) from ending up like Rocky. The problem is, Rocky has money, power and prestige—all the things the boys in the neighborhood admire.  What transpires is a morality tale about the ills of vice and the redemptive nature of self-sacrifice.

While there is a smattering of a romance between Rocky and a social worker (Ann Sheridan) in the movie, the story is primarily male-centered. Cagney and O’Brien played well off one another.  The two men were great friends off-screen, and it usually showed in the nine films they made together. Angels with Dirty Faces also marked the first of three films that Cagney and Humphrey Bogart worked opposite one another.  Bogart was not yet a bona fide Hollywood leading man, and he found himself playing second fiddle to Cagney.  Here his Jim Frazier comes off as a spineless desperate man—a ‘type’ that Bogart often found himself playing in the 1930s, but one that he would forever dump once he was cast as the lead in High Sierra ( 1941) and The Maltese Falcon (1941).

The film’s other male standout is often overlooked, but perhaps deserves the most praise: Frankie Burke, who plays Rocky as a kid.  If you’ve seen Angels with Dirty Faces then you know it starts out with a smart-talking swaggering kid who looks, sounds, and acts a lot like James Cagney.  It took me several minutes to finally determine that Burke, not Cagney, was on the screen. Burke had Cagney down-pat—his speech pattern, mannerisms, and body language were spot on.  His resemblance to Cagney was so uncanny that he was hired on the spot by Warner Bros. 

Overall, Angels with Dirty Faces is an engaging film. While Curtiz’s moralizing can appear a tad over the top to some, the story itself does not lack integrity—many a 1930s gangster found himself on the losing end and proved that sometimes crime didn’t pay.  The acting by the leads was good, and Burke’s small role was an impressive one. Max Steiner’s score contrasted with Sol Polito’s stark, expressionistic cinematography. The closing scenes of the movie provides for a memorable conclusion.  And, finally, this was the film that proved to the critics and Hollywood producers that Cagney could indeed act.

 

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) **

Prior to 1938 Warner Brothers Studios didn’t make big-budget films. They were known for their low-budget gangster films and weepies.  All of this changed when they gave The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) a $2 million budget and made the big leap to Technicolor.  Luckily, they made $4 million at the box office; unfortunately, I found their use of Technicolor to be an assault on good taste.

Carl Jules Weyl won an Academy Award for Best Art Direction for his castle and forest creations, and a well-designed archery contest. Who am I to argue with the Academy? Perhaps they have higher sensory perception than me, because it was especially difficult for me to enjoy Weyl’s set designs when I was optically defiled by Milo Anderson’s costume designs.  There, I said it—the costumes are beyond horrible.  I expect that someone at Warner Bros. told Anderson that they were spending a helluva lot of money on Technicolor and that he’d better make one damn colorful film.  This is the only legitimate reason I will accept as to why he chose to dress grown, virile men in bright greens, reds, and yellows.  There are many reasons the historical period this story takes place in is called the Dark Ages! 

The Robin Hood story is well known.  While King Richard the Lionheart (Ian Hunter) is off fighting the ‘infidels’ in the Crusades his debased younger brother Prince John (Claude Rains) engages in such nefarious acts as over-taxation and murder.  John favors the Normans and persecutes the Saxons (no history lesson will be provided as to why).  Along with his henchmen, the Sherriff of Nottingham (Melville Cooper) and Sir Guy of Gisbourne (Basil Rathbone), the Prince plans to usurp the throne and decimate all those who stand in his way—notably Robin Hood (Errol Flynn) and his band of merrymen, who are ensconced in Sherwood Forest.  As a result, arrows fly and swords clash, and the fate of England rests in the hands of men wearing tights and extremely bright colors.

It is the fight scenes that set this film apart. Relying on an enormous cast of extras, directors Michael Curtiz and William Keighley do an excellent job of staging their action sequences.  The story moves at a whirlwind pace, which is expertly managed by Ralph Dawson’s Academy Award winning editing.  Who doesn’t like watching Flynn shooting arrows at his enemies while riding on horseback or trying to avoid capture inside Nottingham Castle?  Of course, with any film where Flynn and Rathbone are sworn enemies there must be a swordfight—and this does not disappoint.  The most spectacular shot in the entire movie takes place when they finally cross swords along the stairways of Nottingham Castle. Interestingly enough, what makes the shot so great is that it is done in shadow (with neither men colorfully displayed for all to see)—just black shadowed images! 

Oh, and there’s a love story!  The King’s ward, Maid Marian (Olivia de Havilland), comes off haughty in the beginning, but Robin Hood in his gleaming green glory eventually turns her head (HOW couldn’t she notice him?).  Thankfully, de Havilland doesn’t look nearly as bad as her male counterparts in Technicolor. Still, there was a point when I began wondering if we’d ever see her without a veil.  Fortunately, we do eventually get to see that she has hair!  Her wardrobe, however, leaves one to wonder if tapestry was for more than walls in the 12th Century?  Her scenes are wonderfully complemented anytime Una O’Connor makes an appearance as her nurse Bess. For my money, O’Connor is one of the best things about the entire movie. 

Overall, I was not overly impressed with The Adventures of Robin Hood. It was a passable adventure story, with some nicely staged action sequences.  The story itself was not especially compelling; and, the acting could not be classified as nuanced (which is a shame because there were some pretty good performers in it).  And, the garish use of color to extol the virtues of Technicolor was jarring to every optic nerve I have.

Jezebel (1938) ****

(This is my contribution to the William Wyler Blogathon.  Please check out all of the wonderful blogs participating in this great event, which is hosted by The Movie Projector and runs June 24-29.)

Of all the directors screen legend Bette Davis worked with in her storied Hollywood career William Wyler was her favorite.  They worked together three times: Jezebel (1938), The Letter (1940), and The Little Foxes (1941)—she received an Academy Award nomination for all three films.  No other director knew how to handle Davis like Wyler. As an actress Davis was known for her uncompromising dedication to her roles, no matter if she were playing a complete shrew in Of Human Bondage (1934) or an alcoholic actress in Dangerous (1935). She was also known for her ability to hijack a picture from a weak-willed director. And, this is the main reason she and Wyler worked so well together: he was anything but weak-willed.  He, like Davis, was a perfectionist.  The difference is he knew perfect when he saw it, while she had the habit of assumption.  What I mean by this is that she often thought if she held nothing back and gave the most honest and raw take that she could then it must have been perfect.  Yet, Wyler knew there was more to capturing cinematic greatness and that is what he taught Davis when they worked together on Jezebel. 

Based on the 1934 Owen Davis play of the same name, Jezebel, which was nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, tells the tragic story of headstrong New Orleans debutante, Julie Marsden (Davis, in a role that was originated on the stage by her not BFF Miriam Hopkins). When Julie decides to test the love and patience of her longtime on-and-off-again beau Preston Dillard (Henry Fonda) on the cusp of the announcement of their engagement by wearing a red dress to the Olympus Ball (where all unwed women wear white) she sets in motion a series of events that lead to her eventual downfall.  There are three things that make Jezebel such a memorable picture: the costume design, the Olympus ball scenes, and Davis’ performance. 

The story takes place in 1850s New Orleans, so when the first glance we get of our heroine is her riding a hellish horse and wearing a riding habit we should know she’s a bit progressive for the times in which she lives.  The fact that she would wear said riding habit into greet a roomful of “properly” dressed guests to a party she’s late for only compounds the fact that Julie Marsden is obviously a feminist.  Still, the riding habit is by far the least memorable of the costumes Davis wears in Jezebel when one remembers the infamous red dress and the virginal white gown she wears to beg Press to take her back.  Designed by Orry-Kelly, every costume Davis wears is perfectly matched to the scene in which it is worn.  The dress most remember is the red gown that gets poor Julie into all kinds of trouble.  To answer Julie’s question upon seeing it: yes, it was saucy!  What most people don’t know about the dress is that it was first made out of red satin but when photographed in black and white it looked dull, so the color had to be changed to rust-brown to appear red on film.  Still, it is a rather startling dress, especially when it is contrasted against all the white gowns at the Olympus Ball.  It fits Davis perfectly and matches Julie’s fiery personality at that point in the movie.  The other standout gown is the frilly, virginal white dress that Julie wears when she greets Press at Halycon Plantation.  At this juncture in the film Julie is filled with humility and repentance and is more than willing to lower herself before her beloved.  This is a key point, because when Orry-Kelly designed this dress he had to make sure it showed well when Julie literally kneels at Press’s feet and begs him to take her back. She is enveloped by the dress and it shows just how small Julie feels about the way she’s behaved. 

That bad behavior, of course, is on full display at the Olympus Ball.  After Julie refuses to change her red dress before going to the ball Press decides he’s going to teach her a lesson in humility. For a sequence that was originally scheduled for only a half-day of shooting the ball scenes turned out to be some of the best in the film.  A half-day soon turned into five excruciating days of extensive takes and camera movements.  The ballroom was huge and had a massive chandelier that hung oppressively overhead. Countless couples (all “properly” attired) are dancing as a full orchestra plays a waltz when Press and Julie enter the ballroom.  When Press removes Julie’s cloak to reveal her scandalous dress all eyes are shockingly focused on the young couple for a moment.  They literally walk the gauntlet as they slowly walk past a line of men who Press warningly glares at. It is at this moment that Wyler and Oscar-nominated cinematographer Ernest Haller focus in on Julie’s eyes, which go from defiant to humiliated in a matter of seconds. Things become even more intense when Press forces her to dance, even as the entire floor of dancers leave the floor, repulsed by the couple’s impropriety. The overhead shot of the empty dance floor, sans Press and Julie, is almost unbearable to watch. The scene itself is what I like to refer to as a theatre of tragedy.  Press and Julie are the actors, while the other attendants are the audience.  As his grip tightens around her waist while she begs him to take her home, you see them encircled by those white dresses in a domineering overhead shot. A spotlight literally shows the complete disintegration of their relationship.  It is one of the most powerful, almost completely non-verbal scenes I recall ever watching. 

Of Davis’ many great performances, Julie Marsden is most probably the most subtle.  Davis had Wyler to thank for this, as well as for her Best Actress Oscar statuette. Perhaps one of the reasons most people don’t remember Julie as a bitch is because of the way Wyler asked Davis to play her.  Instead of speaking aggressively and dealing death glances with her eyes, Davis was asked to play Julie with a smile on her face and a sweet lilt in her voice.  She may have been giving Press hell or inciting duels, but she did it with a sweet Southern smile and a coquettish twinkle in her eye. At first when Wyler asked Davis to play her character like this she didn’t understand and was very off-put, but after watching the rushes she soon realized that her director was right. I think that is what makes Julie one of her most memorable characters—she was so different from the roles Davis usually played.  I mean, really, who can ever forget how she looked as she knelt before Press—completely humble and innocent—begging for his forgiveness and love.  How often did Bette Davis kneel before any man?  And, then, of course, you have that indescribably baffled look on her face when Press introduces his new wife (Margaret Lindsay) to her.  As she takes a moment to take in what he’s said you can see her internal struggle to understand what has just taken place. Her only response, obviously dumbfounded, “Your wife?”  Priceless.

Oddly enough, Jezebel had as much drama happening behind the scenes as it did in front of the camera.  For one thing, Wyler and Davis started a torrid affair that reportedly resulted in a pregnancy. And, perhaps to fully encompass the role of Jezebel, who in the words of Aunt Belle (Best Supporting Actress winner Fay Bainter) was “a woman who did evil in the sight of God,” Davis also conducted an affair with Fonda after having a fight with Wyler.  It took a phone call from Fonda’s pregnant wife (she was carrying Jane) to make Davis end the fling.  In addition, at one point Jack Warner was seriously considering replacing Wyler with William Dieterle because Wyler was so far behind schedule and over budget. Davis had to plead with Warner to keep Wyler and promised to work until midnight every night if that’s what it took to finish the film with Wyler.  In the end, the film finished a month late and nearly $400,000 over budget.  Ah, but it was all worth it, as Jezebel made Bette Davis a superstar and William Wyler a top-tier director.